


spider's web

by portions_forfox



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:10:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portions_forfox/pseuds/portions_forfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tony talks like he's painting a masterpiece, and sid doesn't talk at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	spider's web

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youremyqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youremyqueen/gifts).



> written for youremyqueen's prompt at lesoleilluna's skins ficathon: _tony/sid, i love when you tell me not to speak._

Tony talks like he’s painting a masterpiece, these long golden sweeps, these staccato bursts of red, this picture he’s clobbering together that seems just a mess of color and words until the end, the end product, you know? And then it’s—it’s fucking beautiful, innit. It’s like you can still _feel_ the weight of it stick in your chest, physically _see_ the words clinging like water drops to his candy lips. The bottom one hangs open, the inside wet. It’s the kind of thing you notice.

Sid’s just the opposite, see, he just, he like— _stutters_ and everything, and he can never seem to get out just what the fuck it is he’s trying to say, like, _What you have to do with functions is substitute the number in the parentheses for every x in the problem_ , only instead it comes out all like, _There’s like—it’s like f times this, right? But it’s not really, it’s f of x, except it’s not x it’s actually a number, and so you have to—you have to like—_

And _I don’t really_ want _to fuck just anyone, is the thing_ comes out like _Tony, I’m not—are you—oh for God’s sakes, fuck it_. And _why don’t you ever fucking_ feel _anything huh Tony? do you even fucking care at all?_ comes out like not at all, and always ends with “Shut up, Sid.”

Which, like, he does. Easier, innit.

 

-

 

Sometimes Sid thinks it’s _because_ he’s so fucking inarticulate that he’s best friends with Tony. Don’t they always say that like whatever you’re the worst at is what you admire most in other people? Yeah, that’s like—that’s really true with him, and Tony. Everybody loves to hear Tony spin this cotton candy web of words but nobody loved it like Sid did at first. He was in awe of it, really, because he could never come fucking _close_ , and it’s so like—it’s like… _mesmerizing_ , kind of.

And the thing is, you’d think Tony’d tone it down a little when he’s around just Sid, you know like, switch off the weird little part of his brain that’s always manipulating people in a way, playing an angle or whatever, but he doesn’t. And sometimes Sid is used to that. And sometimes it really fucking bothers him.

“Girls,” Tony says one time in Sid’s room, back leaning against the bedpost as he passes Sid a joint, “are like dogs, in a way.” He stretches his legs out across the rough carpet, crosses one ankle over the other, and Sid puffs in a drag, watching, silent. “All they really require,” a little bit of that familiar snigger creeping into his all-knowing tone now, “is a little proper care and feeding now and again. Some jewelry, some compliments. Studded collar and the like.” Sid can hear the sound of him breathing in—Tony always does it like a show, this giant swoosh of inward breath. “That’s all it takes for them to follow you around for as long as you like. Only difference is,” and without turning his head he hands Sid the spliff again, long pale fingers brushing Sid’s. They’re kind of feminine fingers, Tony’s. Just a bit. “The dog doesn’t whinge at you if you don’t call after you fuck it.”

Tony’s head falls back. He closes his eyes. Takes Sid a minute to register what he’s just said. He’s kind of really fucking high.

“Tha’s nasty, mate.”

“Is it?” Tony shoots back, quick, it’s always quick. He never really seems to be high, even when he definitely is—he’s like that, Tony. “The way I see it,” he says, and with no small amount of effort Sid turns his head onto one shoulder, tries to focus his gaze on Tony’s face. He ends up staring at Tony’s lips while he talks, the red curl of them, the wet insides of his mouth and the tip of his tongue tracing outer skin. He’s got a really round mouth, Tony. Sid wonders suddenly if the rumor to do with Maxxie is true. “ ’Chelle’s like a dog.”

Sid frowns then, turns his head, and that’s when Tony grins straight at him with total abandon, and—and that’s just it, isn’t it. He was building up to that as a sort of a punchline, to like, to like take the piss out of Sid ’cause he _knows_ , of course, how he feels about Michelle. Tony knows everything.

And Sid wants to say something, but he like, he just _can’t_ , you know? Tony knows what he can get away with by now. It’d end with “Shut up, Sid,” anyway.

 

-

 

Ever since Sid was little, or like, whatever, ever since he met Tony, he’s done this thing where he like stares at Tony’s mouth while he’s talking, like. He’s supposed to be making eye contact, yeah? And most of the time he remembers halfway through and he breaks off and stares wide-eyed into Tony’s gaze but like, it’s like. There’s something hypnotizing about it. About Tony talking. Like, talking’s what he _does_ , you know? It’s his gift in life, he talks and people listen to him. He could fuck over the world if he wanted to. Sometimes Sid thinks he does.

But anyway, it’s like—Tony’s lips. The top one’s got this dip in the middle like out of a magazine, and the lower one’s always jutted out kind of further than it should be, so you can see the inside of it, purple veins, velvet, kind of. Sometimes Sid catches sight of just the inside of one cheek, or his tongue for just a minute, and then there’s all these like images that go with that, Tony’s mouth.

And Tony knows, man. Tony knows everything. And that’s why whenever he whispers “Shut up, Sid,” he does it really fucking close to Sid’s ear, leans in close like he’s about to say something _other_ than those three crushing syllables, the inside of his lips brushing warm against the lobe, sometimes teeth, sharp, catching—

He’s said it a lot, Tony. You know. “Shut up, Sid.”

 

-

 

Tony doesn’t love Michelle, and Sid’s always known that. She’s the prettiest girl at the all and therefore she belongs to Tony, but he doesn’t love her, there’s not a thing about her he wouldn’t trade in the second a hotter girl to fuck came around. And Sid loves her, okay, he really fucking loves her. It’s always been that way, and he’s gotten used to that, but this—this—to have Tony practically _give_ her to him, the smell of her hair beneath his nose, her slender hands grasping at his shoulders as they danced—she was _Sid’s_ until the moment Sid realized she wasn’t. She was Tony’s. She was always Tony’s. He never should have doubted it for a second.

And all of that’s—all of that’s _fine_ , okay, it’s whatever, so he loves Michelle and Tony doesn’t and Tony treats her like shit, it’s fine. So Tony made him believe he could have her, so Tony swooped in at the last second to steal her back because that’d always been the plan, because he always gets what he wants, that’s fine. So Tony doesn’t love Michelle. So Tony doesn’t love anybody, Sid’s always known that.

The problem is—the _real_ problem here is that Sid’s starting to think Tony doesn’t love _him_. 

 

-

 

 

Tony comes around afterwards, feigned apologies on his apple lips (Sid can tell they’re fake because there’s a smirk there, with Tony there’s always a smirk there, even when he’s apologizing).

“Sorry, mate,” he says in Sid’s doorway, leaned into the frame like he belongs there, “didn’t mean to get your feelings hurt or some such. But, you know. Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, huh Sid?” and he kicks in, sprawls out on Sid’s bed and smirks that smirk up at the ceiling. Sid twirls in his chair; there’s a thousand words wrestling around inside his head, he wants to say _you know what? Fuck you, Tony_ , and he wants to say _why can’t you just treat her like she deserves, Tony, why can’t you_ (and he wants to say _Tony please, man, c’mon, do you love me? do you do you do you do you love me?_ ). But he can’t, he fucking can’t say any of that because he’s fucking incompetent, he’s a fucking idiot wanker, Tony’s always saying so anyway, he—

“Besides,” Tony goes on, sits up and leans forward on the edge of Sid’s bed so his knees press into Sid’s, and he’s—he’s got this look on his face. Sid knows it so _fucking_ well by now, _here’s Sid the fucking twat and he ought to hear it in the most condescending way possible because he’s that much of a fucking twat_ , “you never _really_ thought you’d get to fuck ’Chelle, did you, Sid? I mean, come on,” and he quirks his head, knocks Sid’s knees with one of his own, and licks his lips. He kind of knows Sid’ll be looking. “Not missing much though, mate,” he grins. “She’s got _miserable_ tits, man. No arse to speak of. Always wants to fucking _cuddle_ afterward. And she’s _whiny_ , and she’s—”

“Shut it, shut it, just fucking—shut _up_!”

And to be honest Sid kind of expects what happens next, Tony leaning forward till his face is close to Sid’s, resting elbows on his knees; grinning, slow. Sid suspects this is what Tony’s been waiting for, been drawing it out of him by talking shit about Michelle because he’s good at manipulating people that, because if there’s anything Tony’s good at it’s getting what he wants.

Tony says, “Make me,” and Sid kisses him. It’s rough, his hand pulling hard at the back of Tony’s neck to keep him there, feeling soft flesh yield at the sharp dig of his fingers, and the hair at the nape of Tony’s neck. Tony breathes in sharp just as their lips hit and his lips curl up, teeth clashing, messy, but it’s still Tony’s _mouth_ , Tony’s mouth that shapes words like drawing out music, Sid’s tongue shoving into Tony’s wet cheek he’d only caught glances of before, Tony’s lips still and then moving almost immediately, sucking Sid’s bottom lip between his teeth, tongue tracing the roof of his mouth. It’s _Tony_ , it’s the Tony he’s been watching for years kissing him now, yanking on his hair till he stumbles out of his chair and pushes him back onto the bed, breathes rough into Tony’s wet open mouth, dripping spit. He pulls away for just a second and there’s this _image_ , gray-white sunlight pouring in to light up Tony’s flushed red face, the blush on his stupid high cheekbones and his perfectly fucking quaffed hair all fucked-up and his _lips_ , his fucking red lips hanging open in the most obscene picture, and it’s like, it’s like _god_ , Sid really wants him never to talk again, just wants him to stay like that and never fuck anything up with his stupid talking again.

“Suck me off,” Sid exhales, kind of breathless, “just fucking—suck me off, you bastard. Fucking—fucking hate you right now.”

Tony’s already turned them over and is crawling down Sid’s body, working open his zipper in this completely matter-of-fact way and watching him breathe deeper, and he pulls Sid’s cock out of his boxers and works it once, twice with his fucking _hands_ , Sid looking down and watching Tony’s eyelashes brush his cheeks as he focuses, and he’s not—he’s not expecting Tony to look up with level eyes, whisper “Shut up, Sid,” before licking a long clear stripe from shaft to tip. 

Sid closes his eyes. Tony’s watching anyway.  



End file.
